Holding On, Letting Go
by Random Ruth
Summary: What happens to Sherlock's chemistry things. One-shot.


**Spoilers:** 2x03: The Reichenbach Fall (I can't believe I spelled that correctly first time! I'm reading way too much Reichenbach fanfic.)

**Author's Note:** I've wanted to write something (anything) for The Reichenbach Fall since it aired. But I couldn't come up with an original idea, since everyone on here had jumped on that bandwagon and written some really good stuff, a lot of which ended up on my favourites list. I couldn't think of anything original. Until now, that is. Please enjoy and tell me what you think. :)

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><p><strong>Holding On, Letting Go<strong>

It had been almost a month since _that day_. John couldn't come back to the flat, not when it was as empty as it was without _him_. He was living with his sister, something that was probably causing problems for both. But without Sherlock, and now without John, Mrs Hudson was living a very quiet life. No walls being shot at in the middle of the night (that wasn't so bad, actually), no more visits from DI Lestrade and his officers and no more severed heads in fridges (another thing that Mrs Hudson wouldn't miss, come to think of it).

But she'd become used to cleaning the flat over the year and a half Sherlock and John had been living in 221B, so once a week she would go upstairs and do some dusting here and there, just to keep the place tidy. She wouldn't move anything around, keeping it just as John had left it. The skull was still on the mantelpiece, the unpaid bills still skewered with a Swiss army knife.

Today, Mrs Hudson decided that she had to move something. She'd brought a large cardboard box with her and it took quite a lot of manoeuvring to get it through the door. She looked around for something that she could pack away without moving too many other things. Her gaze landed on the table and the extensive chemistry collection upon it. Could she really bring herself to move it? It would be like taking away the most _Sherlock_ thing about the flat. But she could see a layer of dust forming on the glass beakers and decided she had to do something about it anyway. Mrs Hudson wasn't one for letting dust settle if she could do anything about it.

She lined the box up with the table. She had brought her duster in the box and so she took it out and began, piece by piece, to dismantle the glass equipment. She was careful not to break anything as she worked. Mrs Hudson would take a piece, dust it, wrap it in newspaper, and place it in the box. The Bunsen burners were well used, but they still could be of use to someone else. She'd told John once that she was thinking of donating Sherlock's chemistry equipment to a school, and she decided that it was the best course of action.

There was a greenish-blue liquid sitting in a test tube and it was poured down the sink. After it had disappeared, Mrs Hudson regretted it. Whatever that had been, it was Sherlock's last experiment, and she'd just let it drain away. She shook her head; a voice that sounded like Sherlock's telling her that she was being sentimental about it. It was just a liquid of unknown origin. Not important.

It took quite a few newspapers and a few hours to collect everything. Mrs Hudson had even gone back to her flat so she could get another box, there was so much.

The two boxes were taken downstairs and kept in Mrs Hudson's living room. They weren't labelled, they didn't need to be. She had planned to call the school that very day, but it had taken so long to pack them that it was too late in the evening. So she told herself that she'd call them the next day. But she was too busy.

Two weeks later, and the boxes were still in her living room. She couldn't bring herself to make the phone call. It was like giving away a piece of Sherlock, and she wasn't sure she was ready for that yet.

One day, when she was watching the evening news in her living room, pictures appeared on screen of a school that was accepting donations of equipment for PE, technology and science on the outskirts of London. Mrs Hudson jotted down the phone number that scrolled along the bottom of the screen. She knew that of she didn't write the number down, she'd never get rid of the boxes. She set the note down beside her telephone.

The following morning she plucked up the courage to dial the number. The phone rang for a few moments before it was picked up. A female voice greeted her, crackled by the speaker.

"Yes, you can help me," said Mrs Hudson after a deep breath. "I... I've got some science equipment that might be some use to you."

"Excellent. I'll send someone round to have a look. What's your name and address?"

"Mrs Hudson, 221B Baker Street."

"Would this afternoon suit?" asked the woman on the phone.

"Yes, of course. Come when you like. I'll be here all day."

Then she hung up and made herself a cup of coffee. This was harder than she expected it to be. It was just a small part of Sherlock's life, but at least it was here, not buried with its owner.

Mrs Hudson had just finished her lunch when a man came around from the school. He introduced himself as Tom Lynd, a science teacher. He asked lots of questions about the equipment, taking a few items out to check them. It didn't take him long to recognise the address.

"So you must have been Sherlock Holmes' landlady at some point," he said while pulling one of the test tubes out of the box. It wasn't a question, but Mrs Hudson answered anyway.

"I still am," she replied. She wasn't going to give Sherlock and John's flat to anyone else. She didn't think she ever could. As far as she was concerned, that flat was theirs from now on. And if John ever wanted to move back in, he'd be welcome to.

Mr Lynd seemed happy with the condition of Sherlock's chemistry things, so he loaded the boxes into his car. He shook Mrs Hudson's hand and gave her a grateful smile before driving away. A little bit of Sherlock went with him.

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><p>It was dark at the school, the children long gone. Two boxes, one quite large and the other quite small, sat in the storeroom. They were surrounded by other boxes of equipment of a similar nature donated by other kind members of the public. No one was there to see a tall, dark-haired man in a long coat enter the storeroom. He took only seconds to locate what he was searching for.<p>

By morning, two boxes, one quite large and the other quite small, were missing.


End file.
